I wake up every morning, I look in the mirror, and I tell myself “whoo honey, you’re about the size of 3 houses and a small boat”. Lucky for me, the two things rich business men love most? Real estate and sailing. I’m set.

It’s all about having a positive outlook on the world.

Me and my friend were trying on dresses yesterday. In the stack were these slinky little numbers, with the ever-scorned “one-size” tag plastered to the back. Well of course; i mean, they’re obviously from a rare, tropical tree which has adapted it’s rubbery fruit, over many years, into the perfect shape for slim island girls to harvest and wear. This is a survival mechanism. No one can blame the tree. It’s never heard of feminist revolutions or promoting healthy body image. It just wants to live it’s life.
    But here we are, the two antitheses of every island waif, trying to find flattering clothes, and the only thing getting slimmer is our chance of success. The tree has lost its people pleasing powers and skulks off to mourn in some far off corner. Our stalls are parallel, providing for a successful running commentary between us as the claustrophobia sets in; these American dressing rooms are suddenly reminiscent of smoke filled trenches and World War II. Is the stench of dying dreams a little stifling, or is it just me?
We arrive at zero hour. Now is the time. “Are you trying that red one yet?”. All of western civilization knows the one she is talking about. The unattainable goal. I can practically hear the clink of her combat gear and oxygen mask being strapped on; there’s no way in heck we’ll be able to breathe once we’re in. My own voice answers, enthusiastically cheerful with undertones of terrified “Yeah, let’s do it!”. The elastic tube is unhung, and attempts at infiltration commence.
Sounds of a struggle can be heard all around.  The unspoken fear becomes not that we won’t fit right, or that it won’t look good, but whether we can make it out of here alive. I’m becoming  fairly certain that this is actually an anaconda cleverly disguised as a dress; nature works in impressive ways, and I can at least respect that with my last minutes on this earth.
“How’s it going?” I manage to squeak out, “Are you getting it?”. My friend’s response is an entreating apology to her hair, who is apparently trying to file for divorce on grounds of mistreatment. Meanwhile, I gracefully fall over into the conveniently placed mirror, seal-flopping back into a standing position just in time for an “Oh no” from the other stall. Muffled sheep noises waft over, along with a “can’t-” (radio static) “legs” *vague thumping* and some shuffles. She can’t legs? HAS IT EATEN HER LEGS?.
Our signals are reconnected; we’ve happened upon the bermuda triangle, but she’s made it out of choppy water and is now sending frantic SOS. “How are you supposed to (unf) pull this thing (rrh) on?”.....”One size my-”......”can’t move (hrm)”.......”(death rattle gasp) I think I need help”. My attempts at headbutting the door to rescue her (my entire upper half is still enveloped) prove completely futile, and luckily a triumphant “Oh!” can be heard through the wall. At this point, my arms are straight jacketed, but head and neck have made a startling breakthrough; I no longer wonder what it may have felt like to be born. Some ingenious twisting from a hip-shimmy dance move learned fifth grade year enables first the elbow then the right forearm to finally emerge. The sweet sound of “Is it on?” comes through loud and clear, reassuring me that my friend is still alive. I fling out my left hand like a marathon runner breaking the finish line, dismayed to see that the entire bodice is bunched up somewhere around my ears. Ok, so maybe more like my non-existent chest, but this is still an issue. Frantically, I pull and wriggle, working toward a semblance of effortless clothes-wearing. The last obstacle, my sizable rear end, seems to sense defeat and gives in, leaving me with just enough time to fluff the traumatized curls and open the door. I step out into the tiny hall at approximately the same time as my friend, and we look in the mirror together. The refelctions staring back at us are haggard and unfamiliar, but wearily victorious.

“I can’t breathe” she wheezes.
“I think i ripped a hole” I tell her, self-consciously patting the back.

One size
does not fit all.

(But on the bright side, we did look smokin hot for about four seconds there.)